The Relocation Act
by Queen-Knightess
Summary: Forced into Beaubaxton's by her 'wonderful friends', our Golden Girl seethes with anger at the thought of being left for her own safety. But just how many people will join her there? " What the blubbering French idiot is trying to say," drawled a familiar voice, " is that it won't just be mudbloods." Disclaimer: All Characters and Locations are Owned by JK Rowling


_**Author's Note:**_ Hello my lovelies!

So, this is my first fic in Fanfiction. I'm more of a FictionPress kinda gal ( you kind find me over there with the same username Queen-Knightess), but this fic just could NOT get out of my head. I have a loose plot, and we'll see where this goes!

I'm not one to beg for reviews; just the fact that you've read it is enough. But be there constructive criticisms, flames, or praise, let me know.

I'm also quite curious: What is Madame Maxine's accent? I know Fleur Delacour spoke this way, but I'm not entirely certain how Madame Maxine's accent worked ( My Harry Potter books, unfortunately, are currently at the other house).

Anyway, this is a Dramione fic. I just absolutely love those. :)

* * *

Beaubaxtons

Even before the nightmares had struck and the war had begun, the library had been her place of solace. With it's ink-kissed pages, musty aroma, and promises of knowledge, Hermione had always found herself lingering in the whispering pages of a thousand worlds, escaping to the soft, welcoming bliss of a different life or expanding her knowledge of wizard literature. It didn't matter to her which book she picked from the shelves. Any book. Be it simple housewitch spells, brewing complicated potions, the Muggle classics, or wizarding tales, Hermione was content to lose herself in a different world. To shed her identity, her thoughts, and her troubles and find herself enraptured by seven different ways to banish Pixies.

It was the only thing that kept her sane, in a possibly very insane world.

Hermione's fingers idly traced her scar on her arm and followed the raised, pink flesh. Etched into her flesh, the filthiness of her blood was mutilated in one vile word: MUDBLOOD. She shivered as she remembered that night, the heavy weight of Bellatrix, the unbearable itch and pain in her arm, and the constant, white-hot, stinging pain from the end of Bellatrix's cursed wand. She mutely raised one hand to throat, remembering how she had screamed herself hoarse. She could almost feel it now, that burning pain, burning Harry and Ron's name from her mind, and only being left with the desire to withstand. To endure. To deny.

Hermione jerked her hand away as if she had stung herself, suddenly aware that she wasn't alone. The beautiful chatter of French snapped Hermione from her daze. Hastily peering from underneath her lashes, she saw the offenders: two fourth-year girls, babbling inconsolably and clutching each other in excitement, grins spread across their lips as if Christmas had come early.

Hermione watched them as they sat down opposite of each other at a table in the corner. _Beaubaxtons,_ she thought spitefully.

She had been there a total of two weeks, at this beautiful palace somewhere in France. Beaubaxton Academy of Magic. Never had she ever thought she would be here, hiding, stowed away from society and shoved out of view.

Sodding hell.

After the incident at the Malfoy Manor, after the death of Dobby, Harry couldn't deal with it. He couldn't cope, couldn't let anyone die or hurt for him anymore. It was a thousand times worse, he said, knowing that his friend, one of the few who had been there for him through thick and thin, who had done so much, who had helped in numerous spots, one of the people he trusted, loved, and cared for had nearly died. He had lost so many people – Sirius, Dobby, Hedwig, his parents, Dumbledore – that he couldn't let her capture, torture, happen again.

Though she loved Harry much, though she appreciated his sentiment, though she admired the strength of his character, his selflessness, his ability to sacrifice, he was delusional. Under as much strain as he was, faced with challenges that no seventeen year old boy should face, he couldn't get out his head that people were dying for _him. _People weren't fighting, people weren't dying, just for him. They were fighting for a cause. They were fighting for their way of living. She wasn't sacrificing her life for him. She didn't just tell Bellatrix that the sword was fake because of him. She did it for herself too; she did it because she was fighting for her rightful place in this world, to stand against tyranny and evil, to stitch together the seams of a fraying world.

Where on earth did Harry think _she_ would be – the mudblood, to smart for her own good – if Voldermort reigned the wizarding world?

But traumatized by the scars upon her arm, his face pale, he had shook his head and refused to listen to her argument. He couldn't put anyone through that again. He couldn't associate with them. It was better if he was alone.

And to her shear and utter loathing, Ron had also interjected with his own argument. With nearly as much passion as Harry did, he reiterated his close-minded ideas about her staying behind.

My, the tears that she had shed. Angry tears. Livid tears. She knew she shouldn't have gone to sleep that night. She knew she shouldn't have closed her eyes and given up to the warmth that was tugging her conscious thought. . . . she remembered, as she fell into the deep confines of sleep, that her lips and tongues tasted a bit sweet from her water. . . .

He vanished that night. Ron's bed was empty too.

They had left a note. A _fucking_ note.

Not to worry.

Not to follow.

Not to forget.

That it was for her _safety_, that they left. That it was _her _that they were trying to keep from harm.

Hermione had been furious. No, furious did not even cover the immense rage and frustration that came with knowing that her two best friends had _abandoned her._ She had been forced to Apparate to the Burrow doorstep, blubbering with incomprehensible rage and salty tears, like she was some orphaned baby.

But no. Harry and Ron hadn't stopped there. No, their scheming knew no bounds. Well, they and the Order. To her utter astonishment, the entire Weasely family had been supportive of her removal.

_Caring_, thought Hermione with utmost vehemence, _is the most sodding human emotion one can feel. _For it was because they cared about her, and the fact that muggle-borns were being found and executed in large numbers, that they had drugged her. It wasn't bad enough Harry and Ron had left her in the middle of the night, but they also betrayed her as well. It wasn't as if Harry and Ron had crushed her spirit, made her so angry that she had started seeing red permanently, but then they had to go and remove her _further_ from the war.

She'd woken up with yet another note, lying in silken sheets and a view out her window that showed an entirely different view.

And here she was a Beaubaxtons.

She had tried to leave numerous times, but the palace was heavily warded: no apparating in or out of the grounds. So, she had simply tried to walk off. . . . and had found herself coming out of the Enchanted Forest facing the castle again. No matter how far she tried to walk, she always ended up looking upon the elegant towers and glimmering latticed windows.

And so she had resigned her, albeit angrily, and threw her nose into a book.

But now she was getting no peace and quiet. The two fourth-year girls were whispering and giggling in French, their foreign words flowing like honey as Hermione glared at them from her spot.

Frankly, the students studying at Beaubaxtons seemed like a frivolous, superficial, shallow lot. She never saw one of them take out a book and study; never heard one mention of Voldemort, whose name wouldn't be translated into French. She had been listening, straining her ears for some detection of uncertainty, fear. They hardly seemed to realize that a war was going on in Greater Britain, that the entire wizarding community was being split into two. Instead, they fluttered. They flitted to and from their social groups, gossiping, laughing, smiling, and being _friendly._ She knew that there were Houses in Beaubaxton – three instead of the four at Hogwarts – but she never saw any damned difference in their behavior.

Perhaps her animosity of the students was because of the language barrier, perhaps it was the fact that, though she was stared at, Hermione was widely avoided. They gave her a respectful distance, she had to give them that, but their eyes. _Merlin_ their eyes. She constantly felt watched; everywhere she went, she would feel sets of eyes trained upon her.

She didn't know.

But she hated them anyway.

* * *

" Hermione, when we get out of here, will you help me fucking kill Harry and Ron?" snapped the fiery red-head. She barreled towards Hermione and slammed her books down on the table, her dark brown eyes livid with rage.

" I will gladly help dispose of them, Ginny," said Hermione. She looked up under her lashes to eye the seething girl. " Any particular way you wish their death?"

The younger witch had only arrived yesterday, having been smuggled from Hogwarts to Beaubaxton. At least she had been able to pass off as dead – Hermione still had a high bounty on her head, one that would rival the Muggle Queen of England's fortune.

" Oh, they think they're so _noble._ That this is the _honorary_ thing to do – make sure their women don't get hurt. THIS IS THE BLOODY TWENTIETH CENTURY! I'll fight whoever I want to fight, and I'll fucking do it because I want to. Harry give you the same shit about fighting for him? Bloody hell, I don't fight because of him. I fight for him, _with_ him. But nooo, he's got to feel responsible, got to do the 'right' thing." She harshly cut quotation marks in the air. " Wanker."

The two fourth-years glanced over in shock, speaking in quick, hushed tones, their eyes wide.

" Oh sod off," Hermione growled, tired of dealing with their stares.

" Let's leave, Hermione," pleaded Ginny. " Let's leave this fucking place. I hate it. I hate them. C'mon! You're the brightest witch of our age, there's got to be something."

The older witch sighed, closing her book after memorizing her page. " I've tried. I've tried a thousand times. . . bloody keep ending up right where I started. There is no way out. . . . Madame Maxine has got some very complex magic surrounding this place."

" Apparating? I'm underage but you?"

She had asked the question a hundred times since she had arrived, and each time, Hermione answered with a, " No."

" There's a bloody war out there and they won't let us fight!" Ginny moaned, restlessly pacing in front of the table. " Dear lord, what is our world coming to? Locked away as if we'll get broken. Ha! I'd like to see Ron's face when I break his ass."

" Ginny, you are supposed to be dead, don't you remember? The 'Death Eaters' pulled you off the train, and you're dead. Your family's mourning your death as we speak, putting on a facade to keep you safe. You're under-aged; you legally can't fight." Ginny's brown eyes burned like molten lava, her mouth in a tiny O. " At least your family is doing what is best for you. At least they have a genuine reason. Another week in Hogwarts and you would've been dead with all the trouble you're causing. So, I can understand your family's position on _you."_

" I KNOW! I'M JUST FUCKING PISSED!"

" AND I AM TOO!" shouted Hermione, unable to stay calm. She cleared her throat, shutting her book and looking the fiery red-head in the eye." But at least you weren't betrayed by your friends in the middle of the night. At least you weren't shoved under the rug like you're worthless! At least you weren't of age, with a perfectly good opportunity in front of you! How do you think I feel? We're in the same boat Ginny, but I was there! I was helping until _this_" – she jerked her long-sleeve up her arm and showed her the grotesque scars–" fucking blew it."

They were quiet, their breathing labored and angry. Hermione felt drained, the feeling of betrayal and hurt rising to the surface once more. Ginny looked just as she felt: her eyes shone with unshed tears, anger and sadness alike, and her cheeks were flushed.

" Hermione," said the younger witch. Her shoulders were slumped, defeated apparently. " I-I'm sorry. I'm just pissed off at them. At everyone. At _him._"

" I am too, Ginny," said Hermione sadly, opening her book back up. " I am too."

" Hermione?"

" Hmm?"

" Are you still game for that murder?"

" As long as Voldermort's dead, yeah."

Ginny chuckled. " After then, then."

" Yes, after then."

That was, however, the major variable.

That 'if' that haunted them. That 'if' they were fighting – wait, trying to fight. To aid into a favorable outcome.

The one they were supposed to be protected from.

A loud giggle, coming from the corner. Hushed, musical whispers followed by another peal of delighted laughter.

A sigh escaped Hermione's lips. " We're surrounded by blubbering French idiots."

" Do they ever wear anything other than blue? I hate it. It's too cheery."

" I'm getting sick of the color too. Black is so much more nicer to look at. I mean, it is a pretty color, but it's _everywhere._"

" And their damn language too," continued Ginny. " You'd think they know English. They did when they traveled to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Cup."

" They probably do, but just don't want to talk to us."

" Why not? Aren't we likeable enough for them?"

" I don't think it has to do with being likeable. I've been here for two weeks, and the only people I have talked to is Madame Maxine and some Head boy. They stare, yes, but they don't talk. Perhaps they've been told not to."

An agitated sigh from Ginny, and the redhead yanked out a chair to sit down.

" How are you standing it? Don't you just want to throw some chairs – break everything in sight? I'm so angry right now, I'm seeing red stars. Your hair is as red as mine right now."

Hermione let out an irritated chuckle. " You'll get used to it. It'll fester now, but you can't do anything about it." She held up her book. " Reading helps."

" Fine. I'll read."

" Reading is good for you."

" I know it's not, I just–"

" – You're tone implied otherwise."

" Oh, sod off, Hermione."

" I think that I will."

* * *

" Mz. Granger," came a masculine, heavily accented voice.

Hermione looked up, her eyes narrowing at the Head Boy viciously, before she realized that he was looking quite contrite, face flushed, hands fidgeting anxiously at the collar of his grey vest. In her lap was yet another one of her favorite conquests _Hogwarts: A History_, and she was just getting to the part about the magical infrastructure of the castle.

Ginny cast the Head Boy a seething glare, before returning to the classic that Hermione had suggested: _Pride and Prejudice_.

" Madame Maxine requests your prezence," said the Head Boy.

" Why?" stated Hermione bluntly.

" Follow me, please."

The boy, with a swish of his hand, proceeded to walk away through the maze of tables. Ginny and Hermione shared an agitated, confused look ( the agitation being more Ginny's style, while Hermione was most befuddled, as the Headmistress of Beaubaxton had only once requested her presence for the trite reason of stating the rules and regulations of the palace).

Hermione, sighing with regret, set her book down and hurried after the cloaked wizard. He led her through the unknown corridors, and, even after being there two weeks, Hermione was still confused as to their whereabouts. The only routes she knew for certain were from her lodgings to the Great Hall and to the library. Groups of students, huddled together and gossiping, stopped and stared at her before breaking into hurried French and giggles.

How quaint. The Frenchies were at it again.

The Head Boy did not once glance back at her to ensure that she was following; his straight back walk was purposeful and quick, and Hermione performed an odd brisk walk and jog combination in order to keep him in sight. Sometimes she hated her short stature.

Suddenly, the corridor opened to a courtyard, and Hermione recognized the entrance to the Headmistress's office. Unlike Dumbledore's – no, Mcgonnagall's – office which was guarded by an gargoyle, Madame Maxine had taken to lavish affairs to deck the entrance to her office.

The courtyard was covered by arched glass, allowing the view to an uncommonly clear sky but letting no elements of Mother Nature actually impact the area. The sound of rushing water reached Hermione's ears, coming from a quaint pond with clear water and strikingly yellow goldfish. This pond took up the center of the courtyard, and a white stone walkway, ringed with red and ivory roses, cut into the water to an island. A magnificent, golden pedestal awaited them on the circle of rocks, and the Head Boy lead her directly to it.

" 'and on ze pedestal, Mz. Granger," said the boy.

Hermione did as he asked, pressing down upon the hot metal with her slender hand. A familiar pull behind her navel jolted her, and she blinked. When she opened her eyes again, she was standing in Madame Maxine's office.

The half-giant was sitting at her desk. Common with the theme of Beaubaxton's, everything was of elegance. The high-arched windows, to the white bookshelves, to the honey-colored wood floor, to the glass desk, it seemed that the Headmistress was a lover of the refined things in life.

And everything was _giant._ It made Hermione even more aware of her diminutive size.

" Mz. Granger, Headmistress," said her escort.

Madame Maxine broke into a smile, nodding. She spoke in musical French, dismissing the Head Boy, and soon Hermione was left alone with the giant.

" Sit, sit," said Maxine, waving a hand at the chairs which, upon further inspection, seemed to be made out of seashells.

Hermione took the delicate chair and sat, half-afraid it was going to break on her. " You summoned me, Headmistress?"

The Headmistress shuffled in her seat, folding her massive hands on her equally massive desk. Her brown eyes were soft.

" Yes. And 'ow are 'ou, 'Ermione? Are ze enjoying Beaubaxtons?"

What should she say? Hermione prided herself on being honest and forthright; there was no excuse for beating around the bush in her book.

" I'm doing better," she said, knowing it was not a lie. " Beaubaxtons is beautiful."

The Headmistress beamed, obviously very proud of her school and liked to be reminded of such. " I'm am glad 'ou are finding it to zer expectations."

" Is there anything else, Headmistress?" She found it hard to believe that Maxine called her in just to ask whether she was enjoying her stay. There needed to be an underlying motive, and this was just the prelude. Customary small-talk, if you would.

The light in Maxine's eyes dimmed, and she began in a low, serious voice, " This 'ez of most 'mportance to 'ze safety and 'ealth of our nation, 'Ermione. I want you to stay calm and be reasssured zat there is no cauze for fear or alarm."

Already the words of caution had struck feelings of fear and alarm. Hermione raised a delicate eyebrow. Her thoughts instantly flew to Harry and Ron. Merlin! What if something had happened to them?

The Headmistress must've seen the panicked look on her face, for she hurridly said, " No, no. Harry and Ron are okay. 'Zere is no need for alarm. You 'zee, 'Ermione, we are at a large predicament zat I will need your 'elp in undertaking."

Hermione's eyebrow rose higher. She needed help from _her? _Granted, she was intelligent – extremely so – but what on earth could Madame Maxine need help with?

" Oh?" was her short reply.

" You 'zee, 'zere is a 'zlight problem with. . . 'ze war. It is creating much tormoil for 'ze muggleborns alike. England is not 'zafe for 'zem anymore."

" So you want to bring them here," she said in a soft voice. It was obvious. With the Wizarding world in tormoil, the Ministry fallen, and Snatchers looking for any and all muggleborns, there were limited places for safety in England. After all, that was why _she _was here, was it not?

But why was Madame Maxine looking so. . . desperate?

" That's right? You want to bring muggleborns here to keep them safe." The Headmistress didn't say anything, just nodded her head. " I think it's a great idea, actually." Great for others, but not for her, she thought grimly. " Keep them within the safety of these enclosed walls; it's probably the most secure place in all of France, aside from the Ministry. You've got wards. You've got other students. Blend them in. It'll work perfectly. And. . . You-know-who won't even _think_ to look at Beaubaxtons He hasn't even invaded France yet!"

The prospect of such a thing – transporting the muggleborns to Beaubaxtons – was ingenious. Already, the cogs of her mind were turning, finding loopholes and snags and fixing them.

The Headmistress smiled benignly. " I am glad 'zat you are getting 'zhis, but 'zat is not what you need to be aware of. I have already agreed to 'zis plan about 'ze muggleborns being 'arbored

'ere. 'Ze 'eadmistress of 'ogwarts will contact me soon with details. 'Zey –"

" Good," Hermione said, a vigor to her voice. " The sooner you can get them here, the better."

" But 'zat is not –" The Headmistress interjected once more.

" What the blubbering French idiot is trying to say," drawled a distinct, familiar voice, " is that not _only_ will there be mudbloods here."

Hermione had never believed in blood-curdling. In all the books she had read, she had seen one distinct phrase that made her pause and then laugh. How could anyone's blood _curdle_? The very thought was ridiculous, impractical, and unreasonable. Sure, you might get narrowed visioned and quickened heartbeat, but when facing with extreme dislike or intense hatred, nobody's blood ever _curdled. _

But that was _exactly _what Hermione's blood did, followed by a shiver of dislike that spread from the base of her spine up to her spinning head.

" Draco Malfoy," she spat.

" Hello, Granger."

* * *

_**Author's**__** Note:**_ Anyone want to guess why Draco Malfoy's at Beaubaxtons? And please, what IS Madame Maxine's accent like? I really need my books back.

May you find inspiration in every little thing around you,

Queen-Knightess ( If you want to, you can go check me out on FictionPress with the same username)


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